and i'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday
by atlasky
Summary: When her eyes flick to his and there is no recognition in them, he thinks: he must have done something terribly, terribly bad, to deserve all this.


_**Disclaimer:**_ _Do not own._

 _ **Author's Notes:**_ _Title from Fall Out Boy. I don't even know anymore. Leave a comment? Should I or shouldn't I?_

 _._

 _Just let me go we'll meet again soon_

 _Now wait, wait, wait for me_

 _Please hang around_

 _I'll see you when I fall asleep_

 **Of Monsters and Men – Little Talks**

.

The first thing that crosses his mind is: _no_.

 _No, no, no_ —

Not again.

.

It's funny, how life works sometimes.

It's absolutely _fucking_ funny.

Bucky, he thinks, would appreciate the irony with a flick of his wrist and smoke curling up from his cigarette. He would grin and say: _What are you gonna do, Stevie?_ Because Bucky is roughened on the edges and world-wise underneath the easy smiles, crinkles around his eyes, and he has always been that way ever since Steve could remember.

Steve thinks –

Bucky has always been smarter in a way that is different than him, him with his mind in the cloud and his soaring hope that _maybe, maybe, fate isn't that cruel_.

Steve has always been—

Meanwhile, Natasha would –

Natasha would roll her eyes and say: _Charming, as always. But that's not the way it is, Rogers_. Because Natasha is all about the bitter truths, and yet she would also quirk a grin at him and hold her hand out and ask him which ice cream they should get, because Natasha is all about the bitter truths, but that is not all she is. Natasha would –

.

There is a machine, a gunshot, and a scream that would ring in his head forever and ever. There is panic rising up in his throat, choking him, and he staggers forward into the room and only half-registering Clint's warning shots that make the people inside the chamber cower.

His sole focus is the chair and the person on it.

He doesn't know exactly what the chair is, but he has seen enough pictures to know what it is. What it could do. Has seen the proof with his own two eyes. In fact Bucky has been—

Yet Natasha is there on the chair, eyes closed, mouth open in a silent scream as her lungs collapse in pain, and that is an image that would be burned inside his mind, could never forget, forever and ever. He falls to his knees in front of her, unable to think, unable to comprehend, could barely hear Sam's orders to the people in the lab coats to make the machine _stop_.

 _Stop, stop, stop_. _Please stop_ —

"Natasha," he says, and his hands are shaking as he undoes the restraints away, eyes lingering on the glaring red marks. He lifts her into his arms, her unconscious form, the bruise on her cheek, her long red curls, and all he can think about is getting her out of there, to somewhere safe where they won't be able to hurt her, not anymore.

And so he does.

He thinks she would kill him, for trying to protect her, right before she kisses him, for trying to protect her when he knows she is fully capable to defend herself and will kick his ass because he even tries.

.

It has been three years since DC and HYDRA is far from gone. They've underestimated the lengths of HYDRA, because nothing is simple, not anymore. They've been busy dismantling it, going to one country to another – because too bad ' _cut off one head and two more will grow back'_ is not mere petty words.

Five days ago, they got an alert of activities from two bases at once – a major operation and a smaller one, and the Avengers decided to divide into two groups. Five days ago, she stood on her tip toes and smiled that amazing smile and said: _Once we get back, we're going somewhere nice and we'll spend the rest of the weekend off. What do you say?_

Four days ago, they were on different sides of the world.

Three days ago, her signal disappeared.

Clint, who was with her, told them through gritted teeth that it had been an ambush, that it had been a trap, and that Natasha had caught it, but she had lied to him and sent him away. She saved him. She did.

And that has Natasha written all over it.

"I don't know the extent of the damage," Bruce tells him, with his quiet voice and a hand on Steve's shoulder. "But there are scars on her brain and I just think…" That Steve should be prepared for the worst. That they all should prepare for the worst.

He doesn't know if he can handle the worst.

He thinks: _but what do you consider the worst thing that could happen?_

He shivers.

She is limp, on the white bed in the infirmary, all the fire and life drained away from her rosy cheeks. He doesn't leave her side, because he doesn't belong anywhere else, and he can't take his eyes away from the rising and falling of her chest, breathing in and breathing out. It is the only thing that is anchoring him from crumbling down.

He has her right hand clenched in his, thumb drawing circles on her palm, mind _numb numb numb_ , when her eyelids flutter. He straightens in his seat, leaning forward with his heart in his throat and whispers – "Natasha?"

It is a slow, deliberate thing. He feels the moment ticking by, the long seconds when she struggles to open her eyes. And then she does, startling green eyes that he has missed so very badly. She blinks owlishly, once, twice, and he holds his breath with anticipation. _Please, please, please_ —

When her eyes flick to his and there is no recognition in them, he thinks: _he must have done something terribly, terribly bad, to deserve all this_.

She is alive, with blood rushing through her veins, but he can't breathe.

.

Sam is talking to Natasha.

She is propped up on the bed, eyes wary with distrust and clouded with confusion. Steve wants to be there but Sam has told him no, and Sam is definitely the only one amongst them who is the most qualified and the least emotionally compromised (to an extent, always to an extent).

Here is a recap: she doesn't remember.

When Sam looks at him through the glass and shakes his head: it is a confirmation.

"Is there any chance—?" He doesn't know what he's asking, and he can't even finish the question, because his vision blurs and he thinks he might be crying, but there are no tears. He's already out of tears.

"Maybe," Bruce says, carefully, as Tony lingers in the background and Clint is away because he couldn't trust himself enough to stay. "We need to give her time to recover, for the scars on her brain to heal. And she'll heal, in time. But Steve, even then, there isn't a guarantee that she'll—"

"Bucky did," Steve says. "Bucky got better." The unspoken: _to an extent, always to an extent_ – stays in the air.

"Barnes has super healing," Tony interrupts, and then almost winces when Steve's eyes dart toward his direction. But he grips the tablet tighter in his hands and squares his shoulders, as if he's making up his mind to say something. "I'm just saying, Steve. We all want nothing more but for Romanoff to get better, to remember, but we – you need to accept the fact that she might not." The damage could have been worse. She could have been—

Hydra could have done a lot worse, and had they been late a few more minutes, they definitely would have.

"It doesn't matter," he hears himself say, and it feels like he's listening to a stranger talking, for he feels detached and groundless, but he wills himself to believe it either way. Because he does, he does. He believes it. "She's okay and she's here, that's what matters the most."

He got through this once, he can—

Can't he?

 _How much is too much?_

.

"You were here when I woke up," she says, when he steps into the room again.

"I —yes."

Her gaze is calculating, and it's so distinctly Natasha that it makes his stomach curl. He wants nothing more than to hold her _and and and_ –

And she would laugh, probably.

But she would hold him back just as tight.

He drags the chair next to the bed a bit closer, previously occupied by Sam, and before that, himself. She watches him as he sits in it and tries to gather his scattered thoughts. Finally he smiles at her, because this is easy, smiling at her is easy. "Do you remember me?"

"No."

He's a masochist, probably, definitely, because he knows it yet he asks anyway, earns nothing else but the stabbing on his gut. "Okay," he says softly, when it is anything but. "That's okay. What do you remember?"

She hesitates. "I don't—" then she gasps, and curls into herself as she clutches her head, small whimpers escaping her lips. He moves on instinct, pressing the panic button before he climbs onto the bed next to her and draws her in, into his arms and murmuring soothing words helplessly. He wishes there is something that he can do to help her. (He had asked Bucky once, and he said, he said: _no_.) She clutches his shirt in her palms and buries her face in the crook of his neck. He runs his palm up and down her back, in a gesture that usually calms her down after nightmares. It works. "I don't," she chokes out finally, once the shaking has subsided, peering at him with wild terrified eyes. "I don't remember."

 _I know, I know, I know_ – "It's okay," he tells her, and he gives her a crooked grin, hopes whatever eerie ability she has always had to see through him is not there for now. Hopes that she doesn't see his insecurities. Not now. "We'll figure this out together, alright?"

It takes her a while, but she nods. That, at least, is a start. If she asks him not to leave once Bruce and Sam are there to check what is wrong (so many, many things), he tries not to read too much into it.

 _Hope_ , he has learned, _has a way of letting you down_. Hope flutters in his chest anyway, and he doesn't even try to put the fire out.

.

Clint is there the next day, with bloodshot eyes and trembling fingers.

"You look like hell," Steve comments, because that's the very first thing that she would say and they both know it. Although her language would be more crude than that, obviously.

"Eh," Clint replies, holding two cups of coffee and offering none of them two Steve. "My dashing good-look has better days." Then he quickly sobers up and tilts his head thoughtfully. Steve could tell he is trying very hard to make sure his voice is steady. His gaze moves to the direction of the room down the hall. "How is she?"

"Sam is with her, he kicked me out," Steve says, shifting his weight. "Told me I should go and get some food." As if he could. As if, as if.

"Think he's going to let me in?"

"Yeah, of course."

Clint flashes him a smile, small and tired, before he saunters off to the room. Steve watches, as he stops in front of the door, straightens his back, and takes a deep breath. The entire weary demeanor bleeds out from the other man and Steve is reminded of: _Rogers. Why are you so horrible at this? Public displays of affection –_ Make people uncomfortable, yeah. I know. _Hmmm, then kiss me._ You're enjoying this, aren't you? _Maybe. Now shut up._

Clint, who is now plastering a big grin on his face, pushes the door open and says loudly, "There she is! Natasha, I brought coffee. Who's your favorite person in the whole world? That's right, I am. Although don't tell Bruce I'm giving you coffee because I am not a fan of his disapproving stares and—"

The door closes.

He wants to scream.

.

Natasha, even without her memories, is still Natasha. But at the same time, she also isn't. He wonders, guiltily – if this is her with all of her defenses stripped down. Because he loves her and she loves ( _loved? No, please_ –) him, but there are still lines they do not cross. Because they learn to navigate, but they do not learn to tear each other's walls apart.

She is quiet and she speaks next to nothing if they're not asking her questions, and she doesn't ask about her past, or her personal self, other than the little bits they talk about. She doesn't seem to want to prod further, and Sam says it's normal, that she's making her own pace and what they need to do is just to be there for her when she asks.

He has heard that advice before. He still feels the same helplessness.

But there is still a barely visible crease of her forehead when she is thinking about something. Her gaze is still observant, heavy with thoughts, and he wonders what goes on inside her mind (but that is nothing new, not at all).

"Who am I to you?"

He stops, heart pounding so hard in his chest that he's sure she can hear it, and looks up at her from the book he's reading. Her own magazine is abandoned on her lap; she hasn't even flipped a page. She is unflinching, staring at him with a curious look, and that, her transparency, is relatively new. He can never read her if she doesn't let him, though he's getting better at that, and she is also getting better at letting him, but he doesn't know what to do with all her emotions clearly bubbling on the surface right now.

"Sorry?" He says, although he heard her loud and clear the very first time.

She frowns and holds his gaze. "Who am I to you?"

When he doesn't answer, she presses on. Same old stubbornness - and he wants to laugh, but he can't. "You're here all the time, and people tiptoe around you as much as they tiptoe around me. Why?"

"You don't want me here?" He asks instead, the words bitter on his tongue. Apprehension fills his chest. Of course she doesn't want him there, who is he to her now? He's an idiot to think – "I can leave, if you want."

But she grasps his arm in a quick movement. "No," she says, firmly. The same steadiness that grounds him on his worst days. "Stay."

He swallows. "Yeah," then because he owes her this, and owes her everything else, and even more than he can ever give, he puts his hand on top of hers, the one that's resting on his arm. "You're Natasha – to me, you're _Natasha_."

The blank look she gives him feels like freefalling in an airplane to the icy sea all over again. "And who is that?"

.

 **To be continued.**

.


End file.
